


Aquaphobia

by CamilleDuDemon



Series: Cut me and I bleed [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: CPR, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, Drowning, Gen, Hurt Lambert, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Eskel/Geralt - Freeform, Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), Lambert whump, M/M, Protective Eskel (The Witcher), Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Witchers (The Witcher), Swimming, Wolf Bros, Young Lambert (The Witcher), broken ribs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29697387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: "Aquaphobia"NOUNAversion to, or fear of water; (now usually) fear of drowning in a body of water.A witcher that can’t swim is a dead witcher.Barmin’s words made him groan quietly in frustration as he watched Eskel and Geralt have fun in the lake, spraying each other and laughing hard.Now, he was  - theoretically speaking - able to swim, he had swam for his life during the Trial of the Medallion, with an entire pack of drowners on his tail, ready to grab him by the ankle and gut him like an oversized fish to feast on his mauled flesh on the bottom of the lake. It would have been more accurate to say that he knew, at least in theory, how to stay afloat and propel himself to the shore if needed. Swimming, however, was a whole different story.Though he was pretty reluctant to admit that to himself he was, to a certain degree, afraid of water. No one at the keep knew about it, Eskel and Geralt included.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert
Series: Cut me and I bleed [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935454
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Aquaphobia

_ "A witcher that can't swim is a dead witcher." _

Master Barmin's words were buzzing inside Lambert's skull as he watched Eskel get rid of his shirt with a big grin on his face and Geralt fumbling with the fancy strings of his own, occasionally cursing as the absolute thrill of the incoming swim made his fingers clumsy, unable to untie the many knots keeping the damn thing closed.

Lambert snorted loudly, his shiny, new medallion hanging idly from his neck. The chain was heavy, and it scraped unpleasantly against the sensitive skin of his nape. Fidgeting with the wolf shaped pendant, he couldn't help but think that there was no way for him to float if that thing was to sit on his chest all the time. The thought gave him the chills. He considered declining Eskel and Geralt's offer - apparently, all the full-fledged witchers getting ready to leave for the Path  _ had  _ to take a  _ fucking  _ swim in the  _ fucking  _ icy waters of the lake in some sort of a propitiatory rite for the season to come - but.  _ But.  _ That would have meant he was  _ chickening out _ . And, no, no way, Lambert didn't chicken out. Not after being one of the two - only two - survivors of the Trial of the Medallion, a gruesome Trial that had taken place the previous fall, on a night of full moon, adding another layer of nightmares to the already consistent baggage of night terrors keeping him awake long past a reasonable hour.

Eskel gave him a puzzled look, seeing him still clothed in full, his boots still on. He had already managed to strip down to his knickers, excitement making the air around him vibrate with energy.

“What’s it, pup? Still too cold for you to dive with us?” He playfully teased, eliciting an indignant squeal when he dared to pinch Lambert’s muscular arm.

“Fuck you, yes, it’s fucking cold you shithead,” Lambert offered graciously, a snarl on his thin, petulant lips. Eskel chuckled. Indeed he was a fully grown man, now, the wolf shaped medallion he wore the very proof of that, still -- he was just so childish, sometimes. As if the bitter, biting boy that had been forcefully dragged through the main gate of the keep by a definitely pissed off Vesemir was still somewhere inside the young, dashing man he had grown into.

Geralt stepped in, working his way out of his old boots with the impatience of a kid.

“Oh, come on, you grumpy asshole. Your first year on the Path is going to be shitty if you don’t take the dive. You really want to risk that?”

Lambert growled, planting his arse firmly on a flat rock.

“Piss off. You go first. I don’t want to freeze my prick off for your stupid tradition. I heard Jorik say that there are more brothels in Redania than there are on the whole Continent, and I want to pay a visit to each and everyone.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, huffing slightly.

“Your choice, puppy,” he said, shrugging. Then he gave Eskel an overexcited smirk. “Last to dive sweeps up the stables tonight!”

He launched himself towards the shore and Eskel, after offering an apologetically smile to Lambert, trudged behind him, spraying icy water all along.

Lambert shuddered. Imbolc had just passed, the snow melting away in less than a week under the beating sun of the mountains, but despite the scorching rays the wind still felt chilly, it stabbed through the fabric of his shirt making the thin hairs on his arms stand at attention against his goosebumped skin.

It wasn’t just the cold, though.

_ A witcher that can’t swim is a dead witcher. _

Barmin’s words made him groan quietly in frustration as he watched Eskel and Geralt have fun in the lake, spraying each other and laughing hard.

Now, he was -  _ theoretically speaking -  _ able to swim, he had swam for his life during the Trial of the Medallion, with an entire pack of drowners on his tail, ready to grab him by the ankle and gut him like an oversized fish to feast on his mauled flesh on the bottom of the lake. It would have been more accurate to say that he knew, at least in theory, how to stay afloat and propel himself to the shore if needed. Swimming, however, was a whole different story.

Though he was pretty reluctant to admit that to himself he was, to a certain degree, afraid of water. No one at the keep knew about it, Eskel and Geralt included. Being unable to face such a weakness made him feel irrationally angry, but he couldn’t cope with the fact that water was undoubtedly  _ dangerous,  _ hosting drowners, sirens and other horrors that frankly Lambert didn’t want to think about.

Not to mention the fact that the lake was probably swarming with the picked bones of dozens of dead trainees, tangled in the nasty weeds growing on the muddy bottom or adding up to the pebbles that got stuck between his toes every time he tried a tentative step towards the small waves.

Another frustrated sound slipped past his lips, and Eskel caught it on the edge of his hearing, flashing Lambert a glance from the middle of the lake. Lambert shook his head. He found that tradition of theirs pretty stupid, still -- he was missing all the fun. Geralt dived and picked up weeds that he promptly threw to Eskel, making him look like some sort of drowner that had been poorly skinned with a hunting knife, or peeled like a ripe pear, and Lambert longed to take part in their fun now that he could. They had never allowed him to partake in their ritual before. He took his medallion in his hand, examining it thoroughly. Another couple of days and he, like Eskel and Geralt, would have been in the trade, his medallion a guarantee of his prowess as a monster hunter.

_ A witcher that can’t swim is a dead witcher. _

“Oh, fuck it,” he said, grabbing the hem of his shirt and yanking it off, his medallion swinging violently and hitting against his chest with a dull thud.

It was all in his head.

All in his head.

The dead trainees? Minuscule particles feeding and fattening the trouts.

The drowners? None in sight. Even if he strained his ears to their maximum capacity or narrowed his eyes to sharpen his vision, he couldn’t detect their slimy, annoying presence anywhere, though he recognized at least two bears prowling in the woods and a  _ something  _ \- a foglet? A solitary nekker? He couldn’t tell - going about its business at a safe distance.

There was nothing to fear.

He repeated the refrain in his head at least three times as he got rid of his boots and breeches, shivering when the wind started whipping at his bare skin.

“Ah, here he comes!” Eskel shouted, shaking Geralt off his shoulders and swimming closer to the shore, patiently waiting for Lambert to step in.

Unable to resist the luring power of Eskel’s open, familiar smile, Lambert did.

And he started swimming.

***

“Do you think he knows?”

Eskel, still plucking out sour-smelling algae from his head, frowned, his gaze drifting from Lambert’s clumsy attempt at swimming without looking like a struggling pup at his first dive to Geralt’s slightly flushed face. He was whispering, but Eskel somehow doubted that Lambert would have paid attention to his words even if he was shouting atop of his lungs.

“He knows what?”

“That we know he can’t swim,” Geralt chuckled, peeling weeds from Eskel’s wet skin with an amused grin plastered on his lips. Eskel shook his head, breathing in the scent of the lake. The weird, mixed odour of fish, algae, wet grass and muck felt somewhat relaxing, up there -- anywhere else, it was a veritable torture for his mutated nose.

“I think the whole keep knows he can’t swim, Wolf. But he’s trying, now, isn’t he?”

“He looks funny.”

“We all did.”

Geralt elbowed him playfully in the ribs. Lambert was still struggling, kicking the water with too much force, unable to coordinate them efficiently with the strokes, his neck a tad too tense in order to keep his face out of the water. Eskel gave him an encouraging smile, but Lambert was so focused on his cautious swimming he didn’t notice it.

“Will he fare well on the Path? Vesemir didn’t want him to leave with us just yet, he says he’s still too hot-blooded to face the outside world without getting caught into some nasty situation as soon as he faces the first hostile settlement…”

Eskel sighed, diving to circle around Geralt and reemerging at his left, facing the dense woods on the eastern side of the lake where the thick shadows provided a much needed relief for his eyes, blinded by the sun rays reflecting on the mirrored surface of the lake.

He wasn’t exactly happy to witness Lambert setting off for the Path, but still -- how could he avoid that? Lambert had passed all of his Trials. He had  _ survived  _ them _.  _ It was only natural for him to leave Kaer Morhen, looking out for himself by entering the trade. That was how things went for all of them; no matter how much he wished for it, Eskel couldn’t have kept him safe forever, tucked away in the mountains where no disingenuous oaf or man-eating monster could have torn him to shreds, or made him even more distrustful than how he usually was.

“He will learn, Geralt. With time. I can’t spend my whole life trying to protect him from the world, it wouldn’t be --  _ right.  _ Besides, he does already snap at me for being a mother hen, and I’ve still got my dignity, you know?”

Geralt snorted.

“But you’re worried.”

Not a question. A statement.  _ Of course.  _

“Is it that obvious?”

“Nah. It’s just that I know you too well, I suppose.”

“Piss off. Keep an eye on Lambert, now, will you?”

And Geralt did. He gracefully turned with a vigorous stroke, his built body almost naturally made for floating elegantly in the water, but when he scanned his surroundings Lambert was nowhere to be seen. The sloshing and the splashing of his awkward swimming had ceased. He lifted his gaze on the bank, almost sure to find him shivering and cursing while trying to dry himself in the sun, but he wasn’t there, his clothes still piled haphazardly far from the biting of the waves and his sword neatly stacked against a tree.

“Fuck.”

***

Swimming was a weird thing.

And it was fucking exhausting.

But Lambert was swimming nonetheless, sending his best fucks to Barmin in the vain hope that the old man could get every single one of them. He even mocked his  _ “a witcher that can’t swim is a dead witcher”  _ thing in his head, chuckling and gulping down some water involuntarily.

Eskel and Geralt we’re still far, almost reaching the opposite bank of the lake, their backs turned from him as they huddled up in an almost inaudible voice.

Old pricks. Lambert could tell that they were both worried for him, since the first year on the Path was, for the vast majority of the young witchers leaving their Schools for the first time, also the last. Well, then. He would have proved them wrong, getting back to Kaer Morhen in winter with many tales of hunts and heroics to tell, maybe even with some nice scars to show off and his pockets stuffed with orens and Novigrad crowns.

He kicked the water with even more determination, grinning.

He was fucking swimming.

He was a witcher, and witchers couldn’t show any fear. So, there he was. Swimming.

_ Until. _

Until he wasn’t swimming anymore, but steadily sinking into the dark, muddy abyss of the nameless lake the Elves had created by altering the course of the Gwenllech.

Panic gripped at his throat as soon as the water rushed into his nose and mouth, and he realized with a choked moan that he hadn’t shut them promptly, unprepared as he was to dive in. He tried to hold in all the air he still had into his lungs, but a sudden lurch of his diaphragm made him painfully aware that there wasn’t anymore left. At least not enough to sustain him as he fought back for the surface, his legs as hard as stone and twice as heavy. 

Contrary to what Voltehre had told him once - and he used to consider himself an expert on the matter, since he had admitted he had almost drowned three fucking times - drowning didn’t feel peaceful or even remotely quiet.

His lungs were on fire, choked by the hideous grasp of water, black dots dancing in his peripheral vision as his brain slowly starved and shut down.

_ It hurt. _

Drowning hurt.

It hurt his sluggish, useless limbs. It hurt his chest, in which his lungs convulsed to force him to draw in an ineffective breath. It even hurt his teeth, clenched shut in a vain attempt at keeping his mouth pursed as he tried to kick again. And again.

Was he even trying? He couldn’t say. He was floating, but the surface was terribly far, and the bottom so horribly close.

The panicked beating of his heart was almost deafening.

He couldn’t keep his mouth shut no more, lest he chipped all of his teeth.

A ridiculous amount of mud-tasting water filled his airways and he drifted, he drifted, until the darkness swallowed him whole and he hit the bottom with a muffled thud.

***

Eskel dived in, dread gripping at his throat, choking the air out.

Luckily enough, it didn’t take long for him to spot Lambert’s unmoving  _ \- unmoving, not lifeless,  _ he repeated to himself - body floating helplessly in the murky water, some bubbles still rising from his nose. Gritting his teeth, Eskel closed the small space between them and grabbed him by the waist, giving a powerful kick to swim back towards the surface.

The limp body in his arms offered little to no resistance, its complacency sending a wave of utter panic through Eskel’s already frenzied muscles.

The surface wasn’t even far.

The lake wasn’t really deep and Lambert could have just propelled himself back up by using the soft bottom as a leverage point.

_ Yet. _

Eskel knew better.

From the little glimpses he had managed to snatch during the few years together, Lambert seemed to be - so to say - uneasy when it came to water, be it that of the Gwenllech river or that of the lake; he tended to be overly cautious around water, going almost stiff, all the grace of the training and the explosive energy of his newly mutated body gone in an instant.

There was an elven word for that, Eskel remembered. The irrational fear of water.

He broke out of the water with a loud gasp, Lambert’s head lolling against his shoulder, his mouth opening and closing rapidly as his body screamed for some air. Nor Eskel, nor Geralt could detect any movement in his chest, despite the obvious effort his body was making to keep him alive.

The sight alone was enough to give Eskel the chills for the rest of his life.

Lambert was so pale and uncharacteristically still when they managed to drag him to the shore, his lips already turning a sickly shade of grayish blue at the corners, his weak attempts at gulping down some air becoming even weaker by the minute. Eskel cursed loudly, trying to find a pulse in his throat, pressing down hard to detect even the faintest beat. Needless to say, there was none; he would have picked up the familiar pattern of his heartbeat with only his ears, otherwise.

“Fuck,” he cursed again, his fingers still firmly planted into the soft flesh of his throat. His thoughts were racing a mile a minute. It was only when Geralt nudged him in the shoulder, urging him to do something, that he recalled what he had to do.

It wasn’t something that masters tended to teach in Kaer Morhen, but rather a fairly modern practice that had started spreading steadily between the medicine students in Oxenfurt when someone in the high places had pointed out that too many people were being reclaimed by the Pontar every year, drowning without any hope of being saved in any way.

Positioning himself at Lambert’s side and keeping his arms as straight as he could, Eskel started compressing his chest, squeezing out rivers of foul-smelling water in the process.

Geralt’s frightened gaze burned holes in his back.

He counted in his head, even though he couldn’t remember exactly how many times he had to press down before filling Lambert’s lungs with air from his own, then he pinched his nose shut and blew air into his mouth, trying his best not to dwell on the fact that Lambert’s lips felt unnaturally cold against his.

Time froze as he started anew, compressions-breath-compressions, more water trickling down Lamber’s chin, as if he had swallowed the lake whole. The distinctive pop of a snapping rib startled him, but he had to go on, he had to force Lambert’s quivering heart to beat on his own again, his struggling lungs to expand and take some oxygen in.

_ Still. _

It didn’t matter how many ribs he broke or how much air he pumped into Lambert’s lungs, the livid tinge of his skin hadn’t subsided yet, and the water coming out in frothy streams from his nose was just being squeezed out of him, he wasn’t retching or gasping on his own to help Eskel in the process.

“Come on you idiot, don’t do this to me,” he heard himself saying out loud, his hands burying in his now pliable chest, feeling every weak kick of the disrupted heart beneath.

Eskel couldn’t say how much time he had spent on his knees, alternating between compressions, rescue breaths and ugly curses, but suddenly Lambert squirmed beneath him and he started gagging and gasping, vomiting water and mud as soon as Eskel tilted his head on the side to prevent him from choking again.

Geralt immediately flew there, gentle hands rubbing soothing circles into his shuddering back, whispering comforting nothings to his ear as Lambert emptied his stomach and airways with pitiful sounds, his eyes still stubbornly closed and his heartbeat a dissonant staccato that sounded dangerously faint to Eskel’s ears.

When he tried to prop himself up on his elbow, Geralt grabbed him tight and positioned him comfortably against Eskel’s chest for support, his still heavy, groggy head hooked on his shoulder as he sputtered and retched some more, the wheezing in his lungs painful to hear. At least his body wasn’t limp anymore, now, but twitching and spasming as the shock and the confusion hit him all at once.

Some more warm water trickled down Eskel’s back as Lambert spat it out, his attempts at articulating a full, understandable sentence all vain. Slowly but vigorously enough, he started stroking between his shoulder blades, whispering a series of “You’re doing just fine”, “breathe” and “come on, you’re doing good, spit it all out” that got almost lost to the wheezing, agonizing sounds coming from Lambert’s sore throat.

He tried to speak again. Geralt advised him against it, then a fit of wet, phlegmy cough convinced him to give up on his plan.

“We must get him back to the keep, Eskel.”

Eskel managed nothing more than a slight nod, not sure whether his legs would have supported him throughout the whole trek back or not. His muscles felt sore, his back and shoulders screaming, his legs trembling slightly.

But Geralt was right, Lambert had to get back to the keep, where he could have been treated by a druid and given something to clean up his lungs with. Possibly even some concoction for the pain, considering that Eskel had broken at least a couple of ribs while pressing down on his chest with most of his weight.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. Geralt, of course, offered a helping hand.

“Come on. Lean on me. Let me help you.”

***

Eskel had never been happier of seeing one of the old druids of the School before. Good old master Drylmer gave Lambert a thorough exam before dismissing him with a tight bandage around his bruised chest and a threatening-looking brew to drink in order to clear his lungs from any possible leftover water that would have drowned him in his sleep.

Lambert didn’t want to drown in his sleep, of course, but he didn’t make it awake to his room, Geralt and Eskel depositing him into his bed and fluffing his pillows so he could rest in a semi sitting position.

After having taken care of the matter, Eskel collapsed on a pile of old furs next to the fireplace, and Geralt followed him shortly after, both focusing on picking up even the faintest change in Lambert’s raspy, labored breath, his sleep troubled by terrors that made him toss, turn and moan.

Eskel couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand seeing Lambert in so much pain, fearing he could drown again because of the water still sitting in his lungs.

“We should wake him up. Give him this brew-”

Geralt shook his head, steadily keeping Eskel in place with a hand on his shoulder, as warm and grounding as it had always been.

“No. He’s not drowning, see? He’s in shock and pain, but that will pass, it’s a matter of days. He needs to rest. And you do too, Eskel.”

Eskel snorted quietly, sagging just a little against Geralt.

“I’d rather keep an eye on him, Wolf. I’m not saying that I don’t trust you on this but -- I don't know. I just feel like -- I’ve got to do this.”

“S’fine, Eskel. We’ll keep an eye on the pup together, all right?”

Eskel nodded wearily. A silly and inappropriate thought flashed through his mind:  _ it had been a hell of a propitiatory rite, to say the least.  _ He tried to suppress a chuckle, but the pull in his lips was evident enough for Geralt to quirk his brow and ask “What?” with a puzzled voice.

“Nothing, it’s just -- poor pup. Starting off his Path just right by drowning in the lake even before leaving the keep for good. That a bad sign for you? An omen of some sorts?”

“Since when you believe in omens, Eskel?”

Eskel shrugged, his eyes glued to the still unsure rising and falling of Lambert’s chest.

“I don’t. But the thought popped into my mind, so…”

“You really need to rest, Eskel,” Geralt offered, slipping his arm around his waist and pulling him closer, affectionately.

“I know,” he replied, bumping his head into Geralt’s and rubbing softly.

Needless to say, he kept his vigil instead, occasionally walking to Lambert’s bed to check on him, running his fingers through his damp hair while he tossed in his sleep.

***

Lambert woke up with a start, a scream dancing on the tip of his tongue. All it took to him to gulp it back down was to realize that his throat was on fire, and screaming would have surely made the situation even worse.

He waited for the panic to go away on its own. He always did, after a nightmare. He curled up with his knees to his chest and he just -- waited.

He didn’t dare curling up in a ball now, though, pain washing over him and making his jaw clench so hard his teeth clattered.

His chest hurt so bad that, for a split second, he thought he had been charged by a furious fiend somehow --  _ after having drowned, of course. _

Fragmented memories made his breath hitch. He could still feel the icy embrace of the water surrounding him, the way it stabbed through him as it filled his lungs, making it more and more difficult for him to keep his eyes open and his legs moving while fruitlessly trying to gain the surface back.

He wasn’t quick enough to suppress a whimper.

Before he could take in his surroundings fully, he found himself enveloped in the familiar warmth of Eskel’s body, his unmistakable scent - leather, smoke and firewood - filling his nostrils, easing down his hiccupy, fractured breath.

“The fuck has happened,” he groaned, barely recognizing his own voice in the croaking sound that left his lips. His throat felt sore, as if someone had forcibly pushed a scraper past his vocal cords and scratched it raw mercilessly.

The room was dark save for a couple of candles. It was already night, then, or at least late evening.

“You almost drowned, you asshole.”

Eskel’s voice was thick with exhaustion. Lambert wanted to squeeze his thigh for some comfort, but he feared that the mere movement of an arm would have made his chest shatter to pieces like glass. Better not to risk it. He swinged, instead, tentatively, until he found the crook of Eskel’s neck, and he rested his head there, wheezing with the effort.

“I told you.”

“You didn’t tell us shit. You never tell us shit, Lambert. You could have just casually dropped that you couldn’t swim properly. We would have never-”

Lambert snorted, causing his ribs to flex painfully. Soon enough, Geralt too added his own warmth to the pile, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight when he sat.

“S’not about that,” he argued. “I told you that your ritual was bullshit.”

Geralt shook his head in disbelief.

“Oh, fuck you, puppy. Eskel is right, you should have told us that you couldn’t swim.”

“And the good king of Redania should have told everyone his chamberpot was made of gold,” he mocked, immediately regretting having uttered so many words altogether. Eskel got up from the bed and Lambert made sure to complain about his decision with a loud whine.

Fuck it, he could allow himself to whine, he had almost drowned, he was entitled to some whining, wasn’t he? 

However, Eskel did return after a while, carrying a cup filled with some ugly ass liquid that smelled like hay and tallow, and pushed it towards him.

“Don’t give me that look. This thing will clear your lungs from the water that could still be there. Drink. I’m not going anywhere.”

Lambert gave him  _ exactly that look,  _ but he took a sip of the hideous concoction anyway. Predictably enough, it even tasted worse than it smelled. He couldn’t help but wince in utter disgust.

“You look tired,” he pointed out, nursing the nauseous brew in his cup. Eskel shrugged resignedly.

“I’ll sleep in the morning. I’m keeping an eye on you for tonight.”

“There’s no need to fuss. I feel alright. It...it only hurts."

Geralt gave a sympathetic squeeze to his wrist.

“Got some Swallow for that. Finish up the brew and I’ll fetch you a vial.”

Lambert had no intention of downing all of that horrendous concoction, but he recognized that a sacrifice could be made in order to have some Swallow with which to mend his broken bones.

_ Speaking of which. _

“Eskel?”

His voice still felt a tad too grating and odd. He took another sip of the brew and suppressed a shiver, struggling to recall what had happened after his brain had gone to mashed peas underwater.

“Mh?”

“You saved me, right? From drowning for good, I mean. It was you.”

“Yes. I’m terribly sorry for your ribs, if that’s what you’re talking about. I wasn’t supposed to break so many.”

A slight  _ pfffft  _ escaped his lips.

“No, it’s not about my ribs. I want -- I’d like -- ah, fuck it. Thanks, Eskel. Although I owe you some broken ribs, now. For fair compensation.”

Eskel let out a faint, tired chuckle, sprawling out more comfortably on the bed as Geralt too settled into a more comfortable position, his head resting on Lambert’s thigh.

“Anytime, pup. Finish up your brew, now.”

Lambert groaned, managing another three sips and then giving up, his stomach churning so bad it even disturbed his sore ribs.

“If you both insist on calling me pup again, I’ll shatter your kneecaps. I'm a witcher, now, you dickheads,” he growled menacingly, propping himself up against the pillows and hissing in pain --  _ totally unwitcherlike. _

He heard both Eskel and Geralt chuckle.

He couldn't be sure, but it seemed like he could breathe easier now...


End file.
